The Tale from the Skull
by GRock87
Summary: Well, I guess this is sort of a companion to Tales of the Chips and Pin Machine, which was my other fic written from the view of an inanimate object from Sherlock. This time: The Skull! Sad, set mostly after the fall, features Jawn being adorable, bit angsty, really. Sadness. I'm currently dealing with my fifteen millionth Reichenfeels overload.


**All right, so, some people actually like Tales of the Chip and Pin machine. So, this is a little sadder than the last one but still has humor (or so I hope). But it was inspired by the same sort of idea. **

People credit John as being the only friend Sherlock ever had. Now, people, I'm here to tell you that that's just not true. I mean, I was there for him all the time, always listing when he was rambling on about psychotic killers, baffling cases, the stupidity of society, and once in a while when he was high things like butterflies and rainbows and whether it would hurt much to fall upwards onto the ceiling.

And let me tell you, listening to that man ramble isn't always pretty. Especially since I've been dead for twenty years. Just because he's a genius detective who solved the cold case of my brutal murder does NOT give him a right to hold onto my skull like that, you know?

I've been a hiding place for everything from a priceless jewel to the spare pack of cigarettes to a rather annoyed goldfish in a plastic bag (full of water, naturally. Now THAT was an interesting one.)

I've even played therapist to John a few times. One night, after Sherlock vanished, John was walking around the flat aimlessly, looking at all of Sherlock's things that he hadn't had the heart pack away yet with tears in his eyes.

I could understand how he was feeling, but I had died once too, you know, and I don't see people sobbing over me! But tonight was different. Most of the time, John would talk to himself about it and then cry a little bit and then catch himself and go watch tele. But tonight, he looked haunted, confused, and sad. I knew that everywhere he looked in the flat he was seeing Sherlock, half expecting him to leap in the door with a crate full of artichokes that had been mysteriously dyed orange or maybe his harpoon again.

I did wonder if Sherlock really would have done it. Killed himself, especially in front if his best (NOT HIS FIRST OR ONLY) friend. Plus, he had the most awesome therapist in the world. I'm pretty much the definition of a captive audience.

John turned, suddenly, towards me, looking me straight in what had been my eyes, once.

"Why would he do it, though? No explanation, like that. He loved explaining things, loved doing sometime surprising and then revealing his magic trick, and, oh, bloody hell, I'm talking to the skull now."

John sat down in his usual chair and put his head in his hands and I saw a tear or two leak from his eyes.

Mrs Hudson appeared in the doorway, looking concerned. She quietly walked over to him, silently wrapping her arms around his shoulders, resting her head on his. John did not look up, moving only to snuggle in to her embrace. And then the tears came, pouring down his cheeks like they'd been threatening to do for weeks instead of the occasional little sniffle he allowed himself when he was alone

"Why, oh, god, Sherlock, just, why?" he whispered raspily as he sobbed.

A few tears rolled silently down Mrs. Hudson's cheeks. "Well, we never could understand what was going on in that head of his anyway, dear, it's not going to be any clearer now." she whispered in a soothing, soft voice.

John was trying to regain control of his sobs, shaking as he leaned into Mrs. Hudson's hug.

"I know, it's just, the bloody bastard keeps falling, every time I close my eyes, he keeps falling and falling and you just can't believe he's going to hit the ground and then he does! He always does. And then he leaves me there. Alone."

Mrs. Hudson squeezed him tighter after that. "Oh, sweetie, you're not alone anymore. You don't have to be. What about Molly, and Lestrade, and there's always me, if you like."

He sighed heavily, looking almost guilty. "I know, I'm sorry, really sorry, it's just, I can't sleep, I can't even go to the grocery without getting snide remarks, I know I should be able to handle myself but I just can't! I can't, I can't, I can't."

Mrs. Hudson was crying now, and she let go of him gently and turned towards the door, dabbing her eyes with her sleeve.

I continued to stare at him, sitting there all by himself, the sobs finally ending, the surprisingly long gush of words done.

He sat in his usual chair, staring at the place where Sherlock should be.

Well, I guess I have a new client now. Because sometime, in the next few weeks, he's going to need to talk to somebody. And that's the beauty of being a skull, really. It's always good to have someone to talk to who won't ever walk away and who will always just sit there, listening.

And whether I like it or not, John is my baby now. And I always protect my babies. Just cuz Sherlock ain't around, doesn't mean this psychiatry practice is going out of town! Plus, I suppose it's better than sitting in a grave for the next 100 years.

And when he needs to talk to someone who can keep a secret and won't give him any pity, I'll be waiting. I always am.

**Well, that was depressing. Sorry. Bucketload of feels right now. I feel like this sort of went from Funny down to Reichenfeels and then tried to go back upwards and ended up falling anyway.**


End file.
